


arlene, myde & the great traverse town meteor shower of 20xx

by NatureTheZafara



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: During Kingdom Hearts III, First Meetings as Complete Beings, Gen, Homesickness, I don't think these two would be among Xehanort's vessels tbh, I'm so sorry guys, Memories, Neighbors, Post-Kingdom Hearts III, Pre- Kingdom Hearts III, Reunions, Speculation, Time Skips, Traverse Town, meteor shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7868293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatureTheZafara/pseuds/NatureTheZafara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two former Organization XIII members meet in a world of refuge; what happens next may warm your (newly-regained) heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	arlene, myde & the great traverse town meteor shower of 20xx

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the kh-worldsconnected zine over at Tumblr! I was partnered with herondalejamess/nocoil; ~~I'll update this when she posts it. Believe me, it'll be amazing!~~ **EDIT:** You can look at her art [here](http://nocoil.tumblr.com/post/149504479731/remember-the-old-days-here-it-is-my-piece-for)!! As promised, it looks absolutely wonderful! Thanks Nathalie ♥
> 
> Title is a reference to the musical _Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812_, which is amazing and I recommend the soundtrack to everyone.

Larxene was never one for keeping time.

Waking up in Traverse Town changes that. She doesn’t know how she got there, nor does she know why she’s there in the first place. The last thing she remembers before passing out is that brat Sora cutting through her with that stupid Keyblade of his. Her vision went black as she faded – and before she knows it, she’s here.

The inhabitants tell her (after some very helpful threats) that Traverse Town is a place of refuge, where those who have lost their worlds to Darkness go. If you wind up here, that means your world must be destroyed, they tell her. Of course, she laughs in their faces – first to mock them for losing their homes, and second to celebrate what she assumes to be the fall of the World that Never Was. Marluxia’s takeover was a success after all!

But she’s wrong, and it doesn’t take long to get it. When she realizes what the people of Traverse Town really mean – she’s lost _her_ original home world, not the Worlds that belonged to the Nobodies – only then does she notice the heightened thumps rattling her chest. Only then does she become aware of the blood pulsing through her veins, of the increasing shortness of her breath, of the anger and anguish and _fear_ left over from when she lost her heart and when Sora defeated her – things she never thought she would feel again, things she _never_ wanted to feel again.

Only then does she realize she’s not Larxene anymore.

It takes a while for her to accept it. One attempted assault on the Fountain Plaza and five months in prison later, she concedes to tolerating having a heart and emotions and being a properly existent being again, if only to avoid more jail time. She rents out a small and cheap apartment in the Second District. She forgoes the Organization coat she woke up in for a set of clothes of a more Traverse Town-like fashion.  She starts looking for work, even if the thought of working under somebody again makes her want to electrocute someone (thank god she still has her Nobody’s powers).

After wrestling with the idea, she starts calling herself Arlene again. The name carries the baggage she thought she’d shed after becoming Larxene, but what choice does she have?

When Arlene settles herself into Traverse Town, she starts keeping time. She counts down how many days have passed since she arrived to this world, taking her prison time into account. She counts down the days, weeks, months she’s spent here with more diligence than she or her Nobody ever had. She counts and counts and counts. She hasn’t missed a single day.

So far it’s been a year, three months, and fourteen days.

 

 

After a year, three months and fourteen days of uneventful existing, something – _someone_ – happens.

Arlene is walking home from her latest part-time job – store’s clerk at some apparel store at the Fourth District, just as unglamorous and frustrating as it sounds – when she sees a man sitting on the sidewalk under a lamppost. Something about this man seems familiar to her – the blue guitar thing he’s strumming certainly is, so is his stupid-looking mullethawk, and his annoyingly nasal voice, and the jets of water spouting around him every time he plays…

“ _You_!”

He yelps and falls backwards onto the cobblestone at her voice, his sitar fumbling out of his hands.  Arlene breaks into giggles at the sight – Demyx’s suffering was always fun to witness, especially when he suffered at her hands. He sits himself up and picks his sitar from the ground, and when his eyes fall on Arlene they widen like saucers.

“ _You_!,” he barks, hugging his sitar close to him. “W-what are _you_ doing here?!”

Arlene smirks and puts a hand on her hip. “I could ask you the same thing, Fishface.”

“Wow, I sure missed that nickname,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes. “Brings back memories.”

“Of what, the fun times we had?”

“They were fun for _you_ , not _me_ ,” he grumbles, standing up and picking up the munny-filled can at his feet. “I still have scars. Anyway, I’m not Demyx anymore, so I guess you don’t need to call me that anymore.”

“I call you whatever I want,” Arlene snorts. “And what do you mean you’re ‘not Demyx’ anymore? You look like the same idiot to me.”

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters. “Anyway, I’m not Demyx anymore, ‘cause I got my heart back!”

Arlene freezes at his words. “You… what?”

“Uh, yeah. I dunno, I just woke up here and next thing I know, my ol’ heart’s thumping in my chest again.” He hits his chest lightly with his fist. “Looks like we didn’t need Kingdom Hearts after all! Heh, and all we had to do was die…”

Demyx’s voice trails off. A lump of unease forms in Arlene’s stomach but she wills herself to shake it off.  “Aw, is that so?” She huffs haughtily. “That’s too bad. You could’ve stayed dead.”

Demyx’s eyes narrow at her. “Ugh, seriously? Would it kill you to be even just a _little_ nice, Larxy?”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?,” Arlene snaps. Sighing sharply, she turns her back to him. “There’s no need to call me _that_. I’m not Larxene anymore, either.”

“You’re not?”

Instead of answering, she harrumphs and starts to walks away.

“H-Hey! Where are you—who are you now?! C’mon, Larx, don’t leave me hanging!”

Arlene ignores him and keeps walking, until his voice fades away, until she leaves the Fourth District, until she’s back in her apartment.

Reuniting with Demyx was _nice_ , but she hopes never to see him again.

 

 

Of course, she sees him again.

Not only does she see him again, but she sees him again right outside her apartment one weekend. And he’s just as surprised and unhappy as she is to see her.

“What are _you_ doing here?,” Arlene demands with a scowl.

“Uh, I live here?,” comes the dry reply. “I’m in the apartment next to yours.”

“Wait, what?!”

Not-Demyx sighs. “I know, me too.”

“Since when do _you_ live here?”

“I just moved in last night.” Demyx shrugs. “It’s the cheapest place in Traverse Town. They sure didn’t warn me about the neighbors, though.”

“And they sure didn’t warn me about the moron infestation,” Arlene mutters.

Demyx rolls his eyes. “I think I liked it better when you were dead.”

“Can’t you scram to some other apartment or something? Y’know, anywhere _not_ next to mine?”

“All the other apartments here were taken; just ask the landlady. It’s not like I had a choice.” A bitter smile tugs at his lips. “Guess you gotta start getting used to me around, huh?”

Arlene crinkles her nose in disgust. “ _Eurgh_.”

“Hey look, I don’t want this either, okay?”

“Damn right you don’t,” Arlene seethes. “Alright, listen up Demyx—”

“Er, it’s Myde,” he corrects. “That’s my true name—”

“Myde, Demyx, what _ever_. Anyway,” Arlene continues, “You don’t want anything to do with me, and I sure as hell don’t want anything to do with you. So I have a proposal for you: you stay in your apartment, I stay in mine, you don’t bug me and I won’t bug you unless I feel like it. Got it?”

“Hey, that’s not—”

“ _Also_ ,” Arlene cuts in, “If I so much as hear one note from that sitar of yours when I need peace and quiet, I will personally kick down your door and snap it in half myself!”

“You _wouldn’t_!”

“Oh, really?” She materializes her sharp yellow knives in her hand, sparks of lightning dancing around the tips. “Are you sure about that?” At seeing the knives Myde takes a step back, and seeing the smirk on her face he frowns and crosses his arms.

“God, you’re awful,” he huffs. “And here I thought getting your heart back would’ve made you less of a psychotic witch.”

It’s Arlene’s turn to be surprised. “How did you—”

“You said so yourself, remember? ‘Oh, I’m not Larxene anymore either’,” he says mockingly. He grins. “You’re on the same boat as me, Not-Larx, better get— _YEOWCH!_ ”

The electric shock Arlene gives him is small but potent. “Don’t call me that,” she growls. “Unless you want me to split _you_ in half, too.”

Myde groans and stands himself up, muttering curses under his breath as he does. Arlene only smiles smugly. “So, we have an agreement?,” she asks.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Myde coughs out a weak cloud of smoke. “You haven’t changed at all,” he adds with a glare.

“Neither have you, Fishface. Now scram.”

Myde throws her a rude gesture before hobbling off to his apartment door. Arlene watches until he disappears inside the door, chuckling to herself.

Not a moment later, however, some very loud rock music blasts from his apartment at full volume. “You only mentioned my sitar, not anything else!,” he calls out from the door.

Arlene balls her hands into fists and growls. The days are sure to get longer.

 

 

It’s bad enough that Arlene and Myde are neighbors. Now both are walking to work together, for both work in the Fourth District and the shortest way there is one they both take.  Neither is willing to take the long way there.

“I’m a busker,” Myde says when asked about what exactly he does for a living. “I play my sitar by the shops, throw in some cool water tricks, and ta-da! Easy munny!”

“In short, you’re jobless.”

“It beats doing retail.” Myde snickers, ignoring Arlene’s glare. “And hey, I get enough to live for a day, so it’s not too bad!”

“Just earlier you were whining about having nothing to eat but potions,” Arlene points out. “But sure, don’t get a real job. I’ll personally throw a party the minute you’re kicked out your apartment or die of starvation.”

“A party no one’s gonna want to attend.”

Arlene snorts. “That suits me just fine.”

Upon reaching the Fountain Plaza, Myde glances up at the perpetually dark, starlit sky. He sighs sadly, wistfully. It doesn’t suit him. “That’s a lot of stars up there,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, so?”

Myde shrugs. “You know what they say about stars…” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Heh, don’t mind that!” He grins and rubs his nose with his finger. Arlene rolls her eyes.

“Tch. Whatever it is you’re on about, I don’t really care. Just keep walking, will you?”

“I already am!”

“Walk _faster_!”

 “Fiiiine.”

They continue walking until they finally reach the Fourth District, but as they walk Arlene can’t help but take another quick glance at the stars. Seeing them glitter and twinkle, she frowns.

She doesn’t understand. Why would he mope over the other worlds?

 

 

Myde shows up in her apartment sometimes. His presence annoys Arlene to no end at first – didn’t they agree to _stay out_ of each other’s places? – but she learns to make the most of it. There’s fun in bossing him around and threatening him until he runs out the door, swearing never to come back. Yet he does anyway.

Sometimes they don’t butt heads when he visits. Sometimes they talk.

“So Marluxia’s plan was a failure,” Arlene muses bitterly. She’s seated on the lumpy used couch that came with the apartment when she began renting it; Myde is perched on an old wooden chair he stole from the kitchen and dragged into the main room. He nods.

“Yep! It was really big news back in Castle-Never-Was when you guys fell.” He stretches his arms above his head.

“And let me guess – you were happy?”

Myde grins. “Duh. Or, y’know, ‘happy’. No hearts and all.”

“Tch. Figures.”

“What were you guys even hoping to achieve, anyway?,” Myde asks, lazily drooping his arm over the chair’s backrest. “Xemnas was an ass, yeah, but he’d still beat you and Marly in a fight.”

“It was worth a try.” Arlene leans back onto the uncomfortable couch. “And honestly, we wanted to take over _because_ Xemnas was an ass. I mean, he made us do all those stupid ‘missions’, made us sit through all those stupid ‘meetings’, put Marluxia and I at the bottom of the totem pole and treated us like crap. All of those ‘high and mighty ones’ did!” She huffs. “While we worked our asses off for them! We deserved better than that!”

“Sooo in short, you did it ‘cause you wanted special treatment.”

“You say that like it’s a _bad_ thing.”

“Hey, at least you’re honest about it.”

Arlene sighs. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. The coup was a failure and Sora got us all.” Her face darkens. “If I ever see him again, I’m gonna shank him in the face. Axel too.”

“Mm. _I_ wouldn’t,” Myde says. “If I ever saw Sora again, I’d thank him.”

“What, for killing you? If you wanted death, you could’ve just asked.”

“Not for killing _me_ ,” Myde corrects, unamused. “For killing _Demyx_. If he didn’t, man, it probably would’ve taken for _ever_ to get my heart back.”

“Why are you so happy about your damn heart, anyway?,” Arlene scowls. Myde tilts his head at her; the confused, questioning look in his eyes makes her feel strange.

“Wait, _you_ aren’t?”

The silence that falls between them is thick and heavy. Myde is surprisingly perceptive enough to realize that she doesn’t want to answer; instead he starts yapping about other inconsequential topics, like the fairy lights in the Fourth District and how they affect his street performances.

Soon enough she can’t stand him anymore; she kicks him out of her apartment.

 

 

Arlene doesn’t have friends. She isn’t a friendly person to begin with, and most of the residents of Traverse Town either don’t interest her, irritate her, or are beneath her. And she’s learned to navigate her way through the town well enough on her own for so long, after all. She doesn’t even think about it.

One day she sees Myde standing outside the store she works in, smiling like an idiot while he chats with some strangers passing by. The strangers look like him; not enough for her to think they’re related, but the similarities are there. She watches as Myde cheerfully waves goodbye to the strangers, as he continues to play his sitar and create mesmerizing shapes with his water magic, as he draws in some passers-by with what looks to be utter _joy_ on his face.

A torrent of feelings constrict Arlene’s chest: confusion, resentment, envy, _loneliness._

She deals with it in the usual way: keeping to herself, letting the emotions fester, and picking on Myde on the way home until he rushes ahead and locks himself in his apartment.

 

 

Sometimes she visits him on the street.

Myde sighs when he spots Arlene approaching him. “Here to pick on me again? Don’t you have anything better to do, Arlene?”

“Aww, what else am I here for? I have nothing else to do lunch break.”

“I am _not_ looking forward to this,” Myde mutters. Without warning, his sitar is suddenly swiped from him. “H-Hey! Give it back!,” he yelps, trying and failing to grab it from Arlene. She laughs.

“Oh, this brings back memories,” she says with mock nostalgia. Looking at the sitar she notices something dangling from the tip of the headstock: a row of tiny conch shells painted different shades of blue, strung together by coarse rope fiber. “What’s this?,” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s a music charm,” Myde says, carefully yanking his sitar from her. “Some folks from home gave it to me a couple days ago.” Seeing the questioning look in Arlene’s face, he clarifies, “My home world.” He runs his fingers on the charm. “These aren’t real shells, though. I mean, we can’t get shells in Traverse Town, right?” He chuckles bitterly. “They’re made of clay. They’re selling ‘em in the First District, if you want one.”

“Ye-ah, not interested.” Arlene tilts her head. “But why are they _blue_?”

“It’s the color of the sea,” Myde explains. “There’s this old belief back home; ‘the sea is the world’s composer’ or something. We live seaside, and the ocean’s, like, a really big part of our myths and stuff. When people make music charms they paint the shells blue, like they’re asking the sea to guide musicians to play good. That sorta thing.”

Arlene sneers. “And you seriously _believe_ that stuff? Never thought you’d—”

“Actually, I don’t,” Myde cuts in. “Not really. Most of us don’t follow the old beliefs much anymore.” His lips curl into a little pensive smile. “But it’s a nice reminder of home.” Jokingly he adds, “And hey, if it helps with my music, I gotta have it!”

“You’re sure gonna _need_ that help,” Arlene mutters.

Myde rolls his eyes. “You need a vacation,” he muses, strumming a few notes. “Some sun and surf might help lodge the knife out your ass. I’d suggest my home world, but you might poison the seawater.”

“That’s a great vacation idea, thanks!” Arlene’s smirk quickly turns into a scowl. “But nah, not even poisoning your precious ocean’s worth it. I’d rather electrocute myself than go anywhere near seawater.”

“Huh? Why’s that?”

Memories flash before Arlene’s eyes – a cold, dark town; a cold, dark sea; the eyes and hands of someone she once trusted; the taste of blood and saltwater mixing in her mouth. Her breath shakes, but she keeps composed enough to scoff. “Like I’m telling you.”

“Obviously.” Looking at her, Myde frowns. “Uh, you alright?”

He sounds _concerned_ for once. It’s strange.

Arlene takes a breath, and tosses her head. “Never better,” she huffs. She turns and starts walking away, saying, “Aw, lunch break’s over, guess I’m going to have to torment you some other time—”

Suddenly her foot hits Myde’s munny can, scattering his earnings onto the street. “Shit, sorry—” Arlene begins, only to cover her mouth in shock when she realizes what just happened.

Did she just… _apologize_?

The stunned look on Myde’s face tells everything. Growling, Arlene kicks at some of the spilled munny before storming back to the apparel store. She spends the rest of the day flushed and fuming.

She even takes the long way home.

 

 

The next day Myde visits her apartment and, to her surprise, asks her out. He says it’s to apologize for saying whatever it is that made her start the day before. Arlene is skeptical, but eventually she accepts – if only for “his derision and her amusement”, she says.

They go have some cheap drinks at the little tavern in the First District. The outing ends _horribly_ – they leave their table drenched and charred, and they barely avoid trouble with authorities; but they reach home out of breath from laughing their heads off. For the first time in a year, five months and two weeks, she’s having _fun_. It’s not the fun that comes with causing physical hurt, but a different kind of fun that she hasn’t felt in such a long time.

Days, weeks, months pass. Within the time, Arlene and Myde do it all. They go window-shopping. They visit the Fifth District greenhouse. They cause a power outage in the Third District (not caught). They create a minor thunderstorm in the Fountain Plaza (not caught). They insult the prince of a fallen world (Myde by accident, Arlene on purpose). Stories of their shenanigans spread, but hardly anyone knows their identities. When the stories reach them, they snicker between themselves.

But they’re not friends. Despite all their adventures together, they insist they’re not friends. Between them they still argue, insult, mock, sass, retort; Arlene still zaps Myde or kicks him out of her apartment sometimes. They’re not friends at all.

(Or at least, that’s what they tell themselves.)

 

 

Arlene gets fired from the apparel store for ‘increasing rudeness’.

It’s no huge loss for her, really, but the thought of having to look for work again peeves her. The sight of a despondent Myde sitting on the sidewalk only _slightly_ improves her mood.

“I can’t believe it, he mutters to himself as she approaches. Without even acknowledging her, he continues: “People aren’t interested in my music! I tried not doing any water tricks for the past three days, but everyone’s like, ‘Hey do those water tricks!’ ‘Oh, you don’t do water tricks anymore?’ They only started giving me munny _after_ I gave in and did their stupid water tricks!” He crosses his arms and harrumphs.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Arlene offers.

“Yeah, people nowadays just don’t appreciate talent anymore.”

“Actually, I meant—”

“I _know_ what you meant,” Myde interrupts. “Can it. I don’t need to hear it right now.”

“It’s a wake-up call, Mydie. The worlds are probably telling you to ditch the sitar and get a real job.”

“ _Hell_ no!” Myde holds his sitar close. “Music is my _calling_ – there’s no way giving it up!”

“Oh, cut it _out_ with the starving artist act already! Even back when we were Nobodies, your ‘music’ wasn’t anything special. Besides, you barely even earn enough to pay rent; I overheard you pleading with the landlady yesterday.” She sighs. “If you insist on continuing your non-existent music career, at least get a day job or something. You’re free to take up my crappy old job, if you want.”

“Retail’s _boring!_ ,” Myde whines. “I don’t wanna die of boredom!”

“Then what do you want to die of, homelessness? Go ahead!”

Myde opens his mouth to retort, but suddenly someone screams. They turn to see people running into the Fourth District in terror – followed by a writhing swarm of familiar black creatures with glowing yellow eyes.

Myde scrambles upright. “ _Heartless_?!,” he shrieks.

“What the _hell?_ ,” Arlene says. When she first came to Traverse Town, there were virtually no Heartless around; there would be a sighting every now and then, but they were easily dispatched, and hardly a problem. Why is there an invasion now?

“Arlene!,” Myde cries, taking her wrist and pointing at something. That something comes in numbers and slithers among the swarms of Heartless and the terrified people running in all directions. Upon recognizing them she gasps.

“ _Dusks_?!”

“Dusks?!,” Myde repeats. Without warning he runs away, pulling Arlene along with him as Heartless and Nobodies spring up from everywhere. “Why are there Dusks here?!”

“How should I know?!,” Arlene shoots back. “Where are we going?!”

“Where else?! Home!”

However they take a wrong turn, and run into an alleyway in the Third District. As they turn back they’re suddenly surrounded by swaths of Heartless and Dusks. Myde gulps. “W-what do we do?,” he asks, his grip on Arlene’s wrist tightening. Arlene yanks away, and with ferocity in her eyes summons her knives in both hands.

“Just like old times,” she says to him, lips curling into a smirk. Myde sighs in annoyance, but readies his sitar for the fight.

“Just don’t attack me too once we’re done with these guys, okay?,” he says as he lunges at the enemies with pillars of water.

Arlene says nothing but aims lightning currents at them and laughs.

 

 

Sora looks different from what Arlene remembers: he’s taller, leaner, wears less tacky but still stupid clothes. Even his Keyblade’s different from the one he used to slay Larxene with. Seeing his and his companions’ dumb faces after they’ve defeated her yet again, Arlene feels nothing but contempt.

“You got me again, Keybrat,” she growls as she stands herself up. “Are you happy now?”

“You attacked first!,” Donald squawks. “It was self-defense!”

Standing to the side, Myde says, “He’s got a point—”

“Shut up, Fishface,” Arlene hisses.

“What are you two even doing here, anyways?,” Sora asks, summoning away his Keyblade.

“What does it look like? We _live_ here, moron.”

“Yeah, lost our worlds to Darkness and all,” Myde adds.

“Oh...” Sora hangs his head.

“Hey fellas,” Goofy says, “D’you think we can get their worlds back once we defeat Xehanort?”

“Xe-who?,” Myde asks.

“You remember Xemnas?,” Sora asks, to which Arlene snorts and Myde nods. “Yeah, Xehanort’s kinda like his complete self, except not really. I don’t get it much either—”

“But he’s the bad guy!,” Donald interjects.

“Yeah. Xemnas lied when he said forming Kingdom Hearts would get your hearts back,” Sora continues, becoming grave. “He was really gonna use you guys as vessels for Xehanort’s heart – so he can start another Keyblade War. He’s even remade the Organization with his new vessels!”

“He remade the Organization, and didn’t re-invite us?” Arlene huffs. “ _Rude_.”

“More like _great_!,” Myde cheers. “No working for Xemnas or Xewhosit or whatever!”

Sora can’t help but laugh. “Yeah!” Smiling, he adds, “It looks like you guys got your hearts back too, so you won’t need _his_ help.”

“Yeah, good for us,” Arlene drawls bitterly.

Seeing the confused looks on Sora and friends’ faces, Myde said, “Heh, don’t mind her. She’s real salty about getting her heart back, for some reason.”

“But ain’t gettin’ your hearts back a _good_ thing?,” Goofy asks.

“What’s so ‘good’ about feeling pain, huh?,” Arlene contests, eyes narrowing at them. “What’s so good about constantly being bogged down by memories of the past?” She sighs. “Fine, we’re not part of the Organization anymore, good. But I much preferred being a Nobody to… to _feeling_.”

An unsettling silence falls among them – a silence Sora shortly breaks.

“But… feelings aren’t just negative ones. Now that you have your heart back, you can feel happy again. You can have fun again!”

“You can have friends, too!,” Donald adds.

“A-hyuk, that’s right!,” Goofy says. “And you can always make new memories!”

Sora nods. “Yeah! Better, happier ones with your friends!”

Arlene rolls her eyes. How very much like Sora and company, naïve and asinine enough to actually believe that crap. However her gaze momentarily falls on Myde; memories of the last few months flash before her eyes. Something odd grows in her chest – not heavy, not constricting, but strangely light and warm. Arlene creases her brows.

She doesn’t understand.

She huffs and crosses her arms. “Predictable,” she scoffs. “You and your feel-good speeches.”

Myde snickers. “Don’t mind her, fellas. She’s just being a grump, as usual.” He pats her back, quickly retracting his hand when she shoots him a glare. Anyway, no worries – I’ll help her out, aight?”

Before Arlene can protest, Sora chirps, “Alright!”

“Hey Sora,” Myde says, “Kick Xehanort’s crusty butt for us, ‘kay? We’ll deal with the Heartless here for ya. Bring our worlds back!”

“We’ll try our best!”

“Seriously?,” Arlene whispers to Myde as Sora and company walk away. Myde shrugs, to which she rolls her eyes.

“Aww,” she continues disdainfully, “And I forgot to ask him to say hi to Naminé for me.”

 

“D’you think Sora will make it?,” Myde asks one night.

Arlene sighs. “Make what?”

“Y’know, get to Xehawhat and save the worlds.”

“How should I know?” She sighs again. “Well, if it’ll shut you up, he _did_ defeat all of us once. That should tell you _some_ thing, right?”

“I guess…” He hugs his arms around his knees and sighs sadly, wistfully. “I just wanna go home, y’know?”

Arlene doesn’t say anything, instead returning to the book she was reading. Memories of a cold dark town, a cold dark sea and near-death linger still.

How she envies his memories.

 

 

Three days later, Traverse Town is met with a glorious sight.

A white streak flies across the perpetually nighttime sky, then another, then another; soon the entire sky is alight with the largest, brightest meteor shower Traverse Town has ever seen. It’s also the first meteor shower in a very long time.

Hundreds flood the Districts to watch the spectacle, Arlene and Myde among them. “Whoa,” Myde breathes. “ _Awesome_.”

The meteor shower begins to slow down, the falling lights petering out one by one until no more white streaks fly across the sky.

In their wake, they leave thousands upon thousands of stars twinkling above Traverse Town.

Arlene overhears an old man whispering: “That’s the most stars I’ve ever seen!” Beside him, his much older companion smiles.

“Yes,” the old woman murmurs, tears stinging the edges of her wrinkling eyes. “I’ve never seen that many stars in the sky since losing our world...”

Arlene turns away from the sky.

 

 

“Hey, have you heard? We can go home now!”

“Really,” Arlene mumbles distractedly. Myde is in her apartment with her, seated on the lumpy couch and bouncing in his seat like a kid going to the zoo. She looks down at her little notebook. Somehow she can’t bring herself to look at him. He’s so excited to go home, so freaking _happy_ … There’s envy and bitterness in her heart, but there’s also something else there, something much sadder and emptier. She isn’t sure what it is.

“Yeah. King Mouse or whatever his name is sending Gummi Ships or something to bring folks back to the lost worlds.” Myde leans his back on the couch. “The Gummi Ships to my world are coming tomorrow. Finally, surf and sand, and no more potions for breakfast!”

“Good for you,” Arlene drones.

“Yeah…” Turning to her, he asks, “How ‘bout you? You going back home?” He chuckles lowly. “I bet you’d be happy to finally get away from me, huh? I mean, I’d be happy too, but y’know I—”

“I’m not going home.”

“Wuh-wait, _what_?” Myde almost falls off the couch in shock.

“Yeah, you heard me.”

“Why not?”

“Guess I like it here,” Arlene replies noncommittally.  Seeing the sceptical look on Myde’s face, she scowls and without thinking hurls the little notebook at his face.

“O-ow! What gives?!”

“It’s none of your business, okay?” She sighs. “I’m not going back there. After all the things that happened… I’d rather die again than go back.”

Myde says nothing. Instead he opens the notebook and flips through the pages. “One year, three months, fourteen days… Two years, two months, twelve days… What’s this? You’ve been counting time?”

Arlene snatches the notebook back. “What did you think it was, a grocery list?”

“Why?”

Arlene sighs. “I’ll give you this one,” she mutters. “I’ve been counting the days since I came to Traverse Town. I started ‘cause at first I wanted to leave and I wanted to see how long I’d be stuck here. But the more I thought about it…” She groans. “Ugh, I sound like some sappy sadsack. This is why I should’ve stayed a Nobody.”

Myde frowns with concern. “Y’know, if you stay here, the time will just grow longer.”

“That suits me just fine.”

“You could always go somewhere else—”

“Like where, smart guy?”

Myde falls silent.

“Tch. See?”

“Welp, it’s your call, I guess.” Scratching his head awkwardly, Myde says, “Aren’t you gonna be lonely here, though?”

A dull pain weighs down Arlene’s heart. She huffs, turning away from Myde and tossing her head, trying her best to ignore the realization threatening to sink into her very soul.

“That suits me just fine, too.”

Myde shrugs. “If you say so,” he says quietly, sadly. It really doesn’t suit him.

Shortly after, she kicks him out of her apartment for the last time.

 

 

Arlene has been in Traverse Town for two years, two months, and thirteen days.

That day, to no surprise, she finds the apartment next to hers empty.

“He left this morning,” the landlady tells her. “To be honest, I was rather hoping he’d leave. Hardly paid his rent. His world might be able to deal with him better than I could.”

“I’m not surprised,” Arlene says.

“By the way,” the landlady says, handing over a small paper bag to Arlene, “He wanted me to give these to you.”

Arlene frowns as she takes it. “Why the hell would he give this?”

“You ask me like I know,” says the landlady with a shrug. “Just take it. It’s nice of him, though.”

Arlene snorts. Without bothering to thank the landlady, she goes back into her apartment and turns over the contents on the couch. Inside is a row of small conch shells and cowry shells, all made of hardened clay, painted in purple and magenta, and tied together with coarse rope fiber. It comes with a small note.

_The colors mean good luck. (You’re gonna need it.)  
\-- Myde_

Arlene rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“Myde, you moron,” she mumbles. “These aren’t real shells. There’s no way this charm’s gonna work.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so, _so_ sorry if there are plot holes and if Arlene, Myde and/or whoever else I wrote here are OOC orz
> 
> Please tell me what you think! ~~Please be kind orz~~


End file.
